


The Fall of Phandalin

by aea2o5



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Forgotten Realms
Genre: Gen, Mild Language, Sword Coast Lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-08 01:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11071032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aea2o5/pseuds/aea2o5
Summary: The Phandelver's Pact brought together gnomes and dwarves in a symbiosis based around the sharing of the Phandelver Mine, in Wave Echo Cave. When humans arrived, the spellcasters among them joined with those of the gnomes and dwarves to create the Forge of Spells, a forge capable of creating magical items. The town of Phandalin grew nearby and prospered; unaware of the rumors of a great evil gathering in the North...(Based upon lore behind the 5e Starter Set campaign: Lost Mine of Phandelver)





	1. Prologue: The Red Wizards

Tar’kness bowed before the lich Szass Tam, ruler of Thay. “Yes, Master?” She inquired, barely daring to lift his eyes to gaze upon her lord, seated upon his dark steel throne. She had never enjoyed being in this chamber, with its dark grey walls, green-flame torches, and statues of infamous liches from long ago.

“You and your company are to prepare for a wartime venture,” the lich replied, relishing the idea of a battle.

“Where to, Master?”

“To the Sword Coast. An overly ambitious orc chieftain has united several tribes, and is willing to pay for you and your company to provide magical support during his campaigns. He has already paid us 8,000 gold pieces as a guarantee of his success. I will expect two of your company to return every three months bearing half of that period’s pay. You will keep the rest and bring it back with you. The two companions will return to you bearing anything that I may decide to send to you.”

“I understand, Master. What is this orc chieftain’s name? How long are we in his service for? What does he plan to do, exactly, if I may ask?”

“His name is Oshark the Splinterer. You are to be in his service until he can no longer pay for your services for three consecutive months, or until the campaign is over, whichever comes soonest. He plans to ravage the Sword Coast, bringing death to all who are in his path. He wanted a contingent of dedicated spellcasters because his tribes do not have many of their own.”

“I understand, Master.” Tar’kness stood, bowed low, and exited the chamber. Szass Tam sat upon his throne for quite some time, thinking.

\- - - - -

In Wave Echo Cave, Thrond Gildhand, Master of Magical Production, was overseeing the production of various minor magic items, which were being fashioned in the Forge of Spells. The room he wherein was sovereign contained thirty desks (more like small workstations, really), six across and five deep. The walls were a soft caramel-tan color, and reflected the light coming from the Forge in a homely manner. The small mechanical lamps scattered over the walls shedding an additional yellow light. As he walked along, he sensed a very powerful magic being woven into an object, and he walked over to its source.

“What is going on here, Beorn Hammerfist?” Thrond demanded as he approached the culprit.

The younger dwarf stood resolutely. “I am making a magic item.”

“That much is obvious. This is not one of the approved items, however. Everyone in this room is to make one of these items from that list over there,” Thrond replied, pointing to a piece of parchment on the doorpost. He then turned and inspected what he saw to be a sliver of gold. “What exactly is it that you are making?”

“If you must know, sir, it is a Ring of Spell Turning. I know that there is a list, but I cannot help but feel that an item such as this will be needed soon.”

“You are not cleared to be wielding such high-level magic. If you made even a single mistake, this entire room could explode. I am afraid that I will have to take this.”

“If you must, sir. But I see that there will come a day when you will regret not allowing me to finish it properly.”

“Are you talking back to me? I am putting you on probation. Only Eyes of Minute Seeing or Decanters of Endless Water should be coming from you for the next two months.”

The younger dwarf sat down, defeated. “Yes, sir…” He pulled out some bits of copper and a small hammer and began to tinker away, muttering under his breath the whole time. “… I’ll show him… He thinks he knows everything… I could make it better than he could, and I’ve seen his attempts at Legendary items…” As he worked, a plan formed in his mind: a plan to finish his Ring in secret. He needed only to wait for the workroom to be closed for the night…

\- - - - -

Egil was stopping to rest in a nondescript little hamlet on the Great Trade Way on his path back to the city of Neverwinter when he met an old man, possessed of a most impressive silver beard, which reached halfway down his torso. He was tall as well, far taller than any human who was as old as this man looked could hope to be.

He caught himself staring at the old man, and his hand fell to the pommel of his sword as if by its own volition. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?”

“I am a guardian of the Great Peace, not that it would matter much to you. I have been sent here from my own world, for reasons I have yet to discover. But that is not why I am _here_ , talking to _you_.”

“Then would you perhaps want to answer my questions for real, then?”

“As you wish. I am here to tell you that your skills with the sword will be needed soon. Have you heard of the town of Phandalin?”

“Yes, who hasn’t?”

“It is in danger, as is the rest of the northern part of this world. I can see that you will have an important part to play soon.” With that, the old man vanished.

Egil shook his head out of bewilderment, wondering what it was that he had eaten that could have caused such a hallucination – for it clearly had to be such – and when the effects would wear off. He decided to ignore the delirium-induced old man’s warning, and drifted off to sleep without a second thought, unaware that Destinies were being woven, and that his strand was shining like a silver hair from the old man’s beard.

He was also ignorant to the fact that when Fate has decreed a meeting, there is a Purpose behind it, and it is futile to ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are wondering, Andonikos is not going to be a major character. This is a different world, but if you are wondering how he got to Faerun, it will be explained eventually in _The Chronicles of Andonikos_.


	2. Meet Me in Phandalin

Egil was soldiering on, trying to make it to Neverwinter by the day after next, when he heard a scream from further on. He rode faster and came to an intersection. Forward would lead him to Neverwinter, while right would send him to Phandalin. There was another scream, and it sounded as if it came from the right. In that moment, Egil remembered the old man’s warning about Phandalin. With a sigh, he turned to go down that road, acknowledging that he probably wouldn’t have done anything too productive in Neverwinter for at least a week. He could spare the trip to Phandalin.

He rode along the road, searching for the source of the screams. After rounding a bend at a canter (a bad idea, although understandable in his great hurry. At least he slowed down a bit from his previous gallop), he saw a young woman being dragged away by several orcs, struggling mightily all the while. At least, he thought there were several orcs. As he got closer, he realized that it was one orc directing three goblins, who were the ones attempting to carry off the young woman. With a yell, he drew his longsword and charged the goblins, who scattered upon being surprised, dropping the woman.

Egil slew one of the goblins with a mighty stroke of his sword, hopped off of his horse, and put himself between the woman and the remaining foes. The two goblins ran towards their orc captain, who stood by the trees, but one was maimed by a burst of flame. Surprised, Egil turned to see the woman completing the actions of Sacred Flame. _Lucky me_ , he thought, _it’s been a while since I’ve fought alongside a cleric_.

The orc growled and charged the two of them, while his last goblin minion watched from the tree-line to which he had retreated. The orc paused en route, looking contemptuously at the recently torched goblin before separating its head from its shoulders. The orc then resumed its charge toward the pair.

The woman cast Sacred Flame again, this time doing little more than singeing the intended recipient. Egil, deciding not to wait for the orc to close in on them, closed the distance between himself and the foe, smiting the orc with his sword. The sword bit into the orc’s arm, and was almost wrenched out of Egil’s hand as the orc retracted its arm in pain.

Distracted his sword's endangering position, Egil just barely avoided being decapitated by the orc’s ax, which he had almost completely forgotten about. He managed to duck just in time, as well as keep his grip on the sword, which was dislodged from the orc’s arm when the woman called down divine flames upon the orc for a second time.

Egil knew that this was the end. He swung his sword, dealing a great blow to the orc, which stumbled a bit, confused and angry about what was happening to it, before collapsing on the ground. The last goblin, seeing the demise of its superior, turned and fled into the trees.

“After it!” the woman cried out. “We mustn’t let any survivors get away! If we do, my whole part of the resistance will be for nought.”

Egil understood the feeling. He had, indeed, been in a similar situation around Greenest several years earlier, dealing with an unusually large number of cultists in the Greenfields. He took off in pursuit of the goblin, finding what appeared to be a well-used (and well-disguised) trail. He set off down it at a run, his new-found ally at his heels.

He caught up with the goblin as it was crossing a stream, heading for the cave in the hill from which the stream flowed. He shouted, startling the goblin, before the woman called down fire once again, roasting the goblin alive.

The action caused two more goblins to appear from the cave, which were easily dispatched by the pair, who worked well together, despite having only been allies for about ten minutes, two-thirds of which had been running through the forest.

After the goblins had been killed, Egil turned to the woman. “Are you alright? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“Not too badly, thanks to you. Only some scrapes and bruises, really. Yourself?”

“Only a bit of a lump from that branch I ran into,” Egil replied, chuckling a bit. “What is your name?”

“I am Rhosymedre, cleric of human proportions,” she, too, replied laughing.

“I am Egil, also of human proportions.” He held out his hand to her, but before she could shake it, a moan sounded from the cave.

They rushed to investigate and found a gnome, badly injured, carrying a satchel, struggling to exit the cave. Examining him closer, the saw that he had been hobbled. “Finally, my rescuers have arrived!” The gnome’s face was bitter, his tone sarcastic. “Don’t even think about it, cleric. I’m too far gone for you to do anything. But don’t leave quite yet,” he cried as they turned to let him die in peace. “I’m not dead yet, and there are things which I must pass on to you before I go.” They sat next to him as he began to speak:

“My name is Eldon Nackle, and I had been chosen by the Council for the Defense of Phandalin to travel to Neverwinter in search of warriors of all sorts who would come reinforce Phandalin, as our spies are telling us of massive orc movements up in the mountains. I assumed that these lower roads would still be safe, and – being unwilling to take any men away from the defenses – left with no bodyguards. As a result, I was surprised, overpowered, and taken captive by the orc and his goblin minions whom I’m guessing you slew. I  
was beaten and then taken (read: dragged) back here, where they have been trying to get information out of me.

“The funny thing about that is if any of them had been able to read, they could have figured out all they wanted to know. Well, read the Phandelver Cipher, that is. Any gnome or dwarf from around here could do it. The missive is in my satchel. Anyways, they beat me every day for three days, and then you showed up. My mission is complete. I have found reinforcements for the town.”

“You should rest,” Rhosymedre said. The gnome nodded, closing his eyes. Shortly afterwards, his breathing slowed, and he was asleep.

Egil found the missive, but found that he could not read it. Rhosymedre could, however, having grown up in Phandalin.

“ _To the Lord Protector of Neverwinter, from the Councils of Phandalin._

_We are receiving reports from agents in the field that there is an orc invasion imminent. We have reason to suspect that they will come for the wealth of our town. As such, we ask that you send as many warriors as you can spare to Phandalin to aid us in our defense of both the town and the mine._

_Signed,_ ”

“Then there are just some signatories, probably the entire Council. Nobody I recognize, though.” She went to put the letter back, then paused. “Wait, there is a second page…

“ _You have been chosen for a noble cause: the defense of civilization against the barbarism of the orcs. I cannot say what your part to play will be, as that is up to the Council. There is then only one thing left to say: Meet me in Phandalin._

_Signed, Eldon Nackle_.”

Egil and Rhosymedre shared a look, no doubt remembering what had brought each of them to the path that they now walked. “ _Meet me in Phandalin_ ,” they spoke at the same time.

As they looked at each other, they became aware that the only sound they heard was of the running stream. They looked at the gnome, and found that he had passed on in his sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Egil has made a friend! Will they go to Phandalin? It appears that they must. IS it too late to save the town? So many questions, so little time to write!


	3. Who Will Stand?

Egil and Rhosymedre gave Eldon a proper Gnomish burial, complete with all the correct prayers. Rhosymedre had been to her fair share of Gnomish funerals growing up just outside Phandalin, so she knew the prayers by heart, and it would have been wrong for her to deprive Eldon’s soul of the release it required. The funeral took up the greater part of the day, and so they remained in the cave system (which they had explored in the dying light of the previous day) a second night, intending to continue on to Phandalin the following day.

The next morning, they awoke just as unwillingly as they had fallen asleep the night before.

They breakfasted and packed up in silence, but as they walked along the trail back to the main road, Egil spoke – the first time that day wherein either one of them had uttered more than a few terse phrases. “So… You look almost as tired as I feel. Did you have any trouble falling asleep? I did. I had a horrible dream, which is usually an ill omen.”

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep well last night either. It’s funny that you should mention a horrible dream, though, for I had one as well…”

“Mine was a rush of fire descending upon a settlement from the hills around it. The people were screaming in terror, and though there were those who fought the evil, they were overwhelmed by the darkness which accompanied the fire. All who stood before it fell – not one survived.” He paused, remembering for but a moment before continuing. “What was your dream?”

“It was similar to yours, save that mine occurred underground, in a warren of dwarven-looking caves. But again, all who resisted perished in the flame.”

“I wonder what it means… Could they be, perhaps, premonitions?”

“I have little doubt of that.”

“If they are, indeed, to come to pass, what point is there, then, to resisting? Who can stand, who will stand, in the face of certain death? Who will be there to stand with us, or must we face our fate alone?” Fear had begun to grip the young hero’s heart at the thought of his potentially imminent death.

Fortunately, Rhosymedre could see the beginnings of despair, and did her best to nip them at the bud, before terror could grip her companion and paralyze his courage. “Ones such as we must resist for the ones who cannot – or will not. We have been chosen to lead these lives. As such, it is our duty and privilege to stand when there are no others to stand. And we are not alone in our mission. Others also have been called to serve, and many of them will answer it and join us, whether it be here at Phandalin or elsewhere in the world where heroes are needed. We have all been called, and we shall all answer. Those who deny the call will suffer for it by not having someone come to them in their moment of weakness.”

“I do believe that you just delivered the most rousing statement since I stood defending the Great Gate of Mithral Hall against the orc army that descended upon it five years ago. Of course, there is significantly more back-up in a dwarfhold than in any human city I have been called to defend.”

“I try,” Rhosymedre laughed, before looking sharply at a large bush near the road, the rest of her body freezing.

“If you’re looking at those bushes over there,” Egil said; then he pitched his voice so that it carried clearly to said bushes. “I saw the gnome who is currently hiding in them when he entered them as we came around the bend.”

At that, the bushes trembled before parting to reveal a gnome dressed in greens and browns, sporting two daggers and a pack on his back. “Please don’t harm me, good sir and ma’am,” he stuttered. “I was trying to escape the goblins, seeing as how they drove me out of my simple home, and I was just trying to get to Phandalin, and I heard you coming, so I dove into the bushes.” He offered a placating smile.

Egil, who had always been good at reading into peoples’ true intentions, leaned forward in his saddle and stared at the gnome for a long while. The gnome’s smile stood up under the scrutinizing look bravely, and Egil at last sat back and nodded. “Very well. My partner and I,” (here Rhosymedre’s eyebrow raised at the use of “partner”) “will protect you, as we are also travelling to Phandalin. However, there are several conditions.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts while the gnome nodded his head emphatically. “One: you travel at our pace. If you cannot keep up, we will only slow down a little before leaving you behind. Two: any tricks, and I will tie you to the nearest tree and leave you for the goblins. Three: tell us your name. Try to get to know us. We are amiable people, and a new friend is a friend worth having.”

“Thank you, kind sir!” the gnome replied. “My name is Nublin. Nublin Rootseeker, sir. I swear to Garl that I won’t try any tricks – not on my two benefactors who are here before me, that is.”

“Very good,” Egil replid. “Oh, and Nublin? One last thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Welcome to the party.”

With that, the three new companions resumed their journey to Phandalin.


	4. Enemy Inside the Gates

Three travelers – two humans and a gnome – stand before the gates of Phandalin. It had been an easy two days, without a single incident beyond one scare where Rhosymedre had misplaced her spellbook, and the three of them were ready for a real rest in an actual bed. They were hailed through the gate, and Rhosymedre, being familiar with the town, led them to the Hall of Council, one of the larger buildings, which was towards the center of the town.

After requesting an audience (at least one of the Councils was always in session, in addition to whichever sub-councils that were meeting), the three were brought before the Council for the Defense of Phandalin, which was rather helpfully meeting at the time.

Council members were prohibited by law from holding a seat on more than one Council, and likewise they could only be members of one sub-council. There were five Councils: The High Council of Phandalin, which oversaw the other Councils and arbitrated between them as necessary; the Council for the Defense of Phandalin, which oversaw (as may be guessed) defense; the Council for the Economic Position of Phandalin, which oversaw commerce, internal and external revenue, and ; the Council for the Distribution of Justice in Phandalin, which formed the entirety of the justice system; and the Council for the Promotion of the Public Welfare in Phandalin, which ran the town’s basic hospital, library, and oversaw the public works funded by the town.

The High Council was fixed at eleven members, and the others had between nine (the Council for the Promotion of the Public Welfare) and thirty-one (the Council for the Economic Position) members. Every three years the town elected the Head Councilman to preside over the High Council. The Head Councilman could serve a maximum of four terms, but he could not serve back-to-back terms. All other members served five-year terms, and were re-electable for the consecutive term (and no term limit). All citizens over the age of twenty-one who either owned land or a business (which amounted to around two-thirds of the population) were eligible to vote, regardless of gender. Only males could serve on the High Council or be the Head Councilman, but women were allowed on the lower Councils (“And yes, I think it’s most unfair”).

Rhosymedre related all of this information to Egil and Nublin (mostly to Egil, as Nublin lived just outside Phandalin’s jurisdiction) whilst they waited for their audience to begin. Shortly after she finished speaking, they were escorted into the Council chamber by two guards.

The chamber was almost square, decorated with several portraits of people who were, presumably, historical figures in Phandalin, and the walls were pierced by three windows on each of the two sides, with none on the side with the doors, and a large hearth opposite the doors. There was a large curved table (or an arrangement of tables, as was more likely), large enough to seat the thirty-one members of the largest Council. The nineteen members of the Council for the Defense of Phandalin sat centered on the table, and the three travelers were escorted into the center of the space, almost in the middle of the chamber.

The councilwoman in the absolute center of the Council opened the audience. “And who, exactly, are you? All we were told was that there was a group of people seeking an audience, claiming that they had something important to tell us. Who is your spokesperson?”

“I am,” Rhosymedre said, stepping forward. “I am Rhosymedre, and these are my companions: Egil and Nublin.” She gestured to each in turn.

“And why have you come before us?”

“Because we wish to offer our services to the defenses of this town.”

“And why, pray tell, is this?” The question came from an old man seated on Rhosymedre’s left hand.

“We found a letter. A letter authorized by this Council. We received it from the hand of Eldon Nackle.”

“Eldon Nackle, hmm? He was a member of this Council, did you know? He served last term. How is he doing? You found him well in Neverwinter, I hope?”

Rhosymedre was about to reply when Egil interrupted. “Sir, it is with much sadness that I must inform you that we – Rhosymedre and I – were with Eldon during his final moments.”

“Dead? How?” This time the question came from a gnome seated to the immediate right of the presiding councilwoman.

“We were ambushed by some goblins on the road. Well, I was ambushed and Egil rescued me,” Rhosymedre explained. “The last one ran away, so we gave pursuit, and it led us to a cave. After we killed all of the goblins we could find, we found Eldon, beaten and bleeding, trying to catch us before we left. We talked, he gave us the letter, and died in his sleep that same afternoon.”

“I see… That is most unfortunate… He was a good friend to many of us,” the presiding councilwoman said. “Where are you from?”

“I grew up on a farm within the town’s jurisdiction. Nublin lived – until recently – in a hamlet not two miles outside of the same. I cannot say that I know where Egil hails from.”

"I am originally from Baldur's Gate, but I have spend time in Mithral Hall and in Neverwinter," Egil spoke up.

“And who do is there to say you are who you say you are?” This hostile new voice came from the far right end of the group.

“I... nobody…? Wait, there is Sigmund, an intelligence personnel in your employ,” Rhosymedre haltingly said.

“Unfortunately,” the same man (with obvious relish in his voice) spoke, “he is not present to vouch for you. I move to imprison you until such time as he returns. Until then, how do we know that you didn’t kill Eldon yourselves, and are actually coming as saboteurs – or worse?” At this, more than a few heads nodded.

“What? Since when has the rule of law been supplanted by the rule by law? I was not aware that it had become customary to imprison people who had come to help just because nobody from the town knew of them. This is not the town I grew up knowing.”

With a sigh, the presiding councilwoman opened the motion for a vote. “All in favor?” ten hands went up. “All opposed?” The remaining eight, including her own, went up. “Very well. The Council has spoken.” With a regretful voice, she continued. “Guards, please escort the three here before you to the prison.”

As they were being led out, one of the guards leaned in, and in a low voice, said “I’m sorry about this. You seem like good people. That spiteful old man – Verron – is a powerful figure. It seems as if he’s the one who _actually_ runs the Council sometimes.”

As he finished speaking, they arrived at the prison: their new home for gods new how long.


	5. Forging Through Adversity

The three friends were stripped of all of their gear, and placed in the same cell, as there were only three cells in the room. One was full of people who appeared to be sporting hangovers. The second was empty of prisoners, but contained manacles chained to the stone wall.

“I’m sorry for putting you through all of this,” Egil apologized to Nublin. “We were supposed to simply escort you here, but we ended up getting you just as arrested as ourselves.”

“It’s alright. It really is. Even prison is a step up from my burned-out old hamlet. Besides, you two are my friends, and I wouldn’t desert you,” Nublin replied.

“That’s all very well and good, but how are we supposed to get out of here?” The three turned in surprise. They hadn’t noticed the dwarf who had been hiding in the shadows in the corner of the cell when they had first been thrown in.

“And who are you?” Egil inquired.

“My name is Beorn Hammerfist.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Beorn. I am Egil, and these are Rhosymedre and Nublin Rootseeker.”

“What are you in here for?”

“I’ll tell you, but then you have to tell us what you’re here for,” Egil responded.

“Fair enough. I might as well. I’ve been here for a bit over a day, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be going anywhere anytime soon.”

“We understand,” Egil chuckled. “We were imprisoned for the crime of not having anyone to vouch for us that we did not commit the murder of Eldon Nackle, may he rest in peace.”

“Oh, that’s rough… Do you have anybody to vouch for you?”

“Yes, we do.” Rhosymedre spoke this time. “The problem is that Sigmund – a dwarf in the Council’s employ – is not available to bear witness. So here we are until he returns.”

“I see… My apologies. The Councils are as stern as they are generous, and they like to follow their procedure more than they like to care for their constituents.”

“We gathered that. But what is your story, friend?” Nublin inquired.

“As you wish. I am – well, was – one of the few dwarves permitted to create magical items in the Forge of Spells. One night, three nights ago, to be exact, I received a vision, telling me that if I was to do everything possible to save my home, I needed to make a Ring of Spell Turning.” Here Rhosymedre gasped. Egil and Nublin looked at her, confusion written on their faces.

“A Ring of Spell Turning is a legendary magical item. They are very powerful, and I can see how they wouldn’t want you to be making one of them. That’s some very powerful magic you’d be putting into a small space.”

“The lady is correct,” Beorn said, respect obvious in his voice. “Anyways, I was caught working during the day, put on probation, and soundly made to look like a fool. I decided, therefore, to go and finish it at night. That was the night before last. Unfortunately, I am not the greatest at stealth, and I was caught unprepared during my work, given a speedy trial, and tossed in here yesterday, where I have been ever since.”

“What happened to the Ring?” Rhosymedre questioned.

“That I am not sure about. They may have destroyed it or simply confiscated it to put it in some top-security vault. Maybe he let somebody else finish it.”

“He? Who is ‘he’?”

“Thrond Gildhand, the Master of Magical Production. I don’t know why he was put in charge: his work is shoddy, be Dwarven standards.”

“I see…” Egil nodded with understanding. “Wait, did you say Gildhand?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I knew a Thrond Gildhand during my service in Mithral Hall… I wasn’t aware that he had moved here. He must’ve gotten a rather lucrative offer to leave Mithral Hall…” Egil reminisced. “Anyways, to answer your original question, Beorn, I have no idea how we’re to get out of here. No offense, Rhosymedre, but Sigmund may be dead, or too far away to return in a timely fashion, and I don’t think that the Council will issue a summons for him just to exonerate us. Not with that Verron fellow holding such sway.”

“Oh, Verron’s a real nasty fellow,” Beorn added.

“Exactly. So, we’ll have to spring ourselves out. It helps that they don’t keep any guards down here. Because of the drunks, I’m guessing?” Egil inquired.

“Yes,” Beorn affirmed.

“In that case, let’s start forming a plan,” Egil said, relishing the words as he spoke them.

\- - - - -

That evening, Nublin picked the lock of the cell (his grandfather had been a rogue, and Nublin had learned some tricks from him), Beorn and Egil led the escape, and Rhosymedre had provided assistance as needed, with Nublin bringing up the rear. The drunkards had already been removed from their cell, in anticipation of the coming night’s round of drunks.

They encountered only one guard in the first few minutes, Egil knocking him unconscious as quietly as possible. They carried on past him, and emerged into the prison’s lobby, surprising the three guards and the single clerk who were relaxing therein. The fight – if it could even be called such – was over before any alarm could be raised, and ended with four unconscious people in the room, and an additional four hurrying out of the lobby, now armed with all of their previous equipment.

“You know, I’ve had a hunch that Verron is abusing his power, and may even be plotting to hand over the town to our foes,” Beorn commented as the sped past Verron’s house on their way to the gate.

“Shit. The gate’s closed,” Egil proclaimed, coming to an abrupt stop before the gates. “Now how do we get out?”

“Dammit… I forgot about that,” Beorn replied, equally frustrated. “Nublin, how good is your climbing?”

“Pretty good. Do you want me to climb the wall?”

“If you would, please. There should be some mechanism for either opening the gate or a ladder or something. I would prefer if you could open the gate, but anything would help,” Beorn instructed.

“Sure thing,” Nublin said, before swarming up the wall like a spider and vanishing into the gatehouse. Several minutes – and one loud clang – later, the gates swung open. Nublin waved them through before shutting the gates behind them and climbing down the outside of the wall to join them in their new-found freedom.


	6. Family Lost and Found

It wasn’t long before the jailbreak was discovered, but by that time the four (now) fugitives were well up the road from Phandalin, heading for the only good hiding place they knew: the cave where they had buried Eldon. At the grueling pace they set, they arrived within a day, out of breath and without any real plan.

They set about exploring the caves in greater depth, ensuring that it was still safe to inhabit, as well as beginning to make the system more homely, as none of them had any idea of how long they would end up living there.

In the back of the cave system, Rhosymedre found a young girl huddled in a corner. She was dressed in the remains of what could, possibly, have been a decent set of clothes at one time. Her hair was black and hung down to her shoulders; she had only a few items around her: one copper coin, a small piece of parchment, a stuffed doll in the shape of a woman (which wasn’t in much better shape than the girl herself), and a single dagger.

“Hello?” Rhosymedre softly called out to her.

“Who are you? What do you want?” The girl replied.

“My name is Rhosymedre. What’s yours?”

“They used to call me Trianta. Trianta Patara. Now they just call me Freak,” the girl formerly known as Trianta spoke vengefully.

“Why do they call you Freak?” Rhosymedre inquired.

“Because I can do… things… that they couldn’t. I don’t even know how it happens, it just does…” Trianta said, her voice quavering.

“You mean like make magical things happen?”

“Yes. One time I was…” she blushed “I was showing off for a boy I liked, and suddenly I was much larger than I used to be. He freaked out, I freaked out, the rest of the village freaked out when they heard about it.” Here she turned fearful again. “They demanded that I be locked up like the freak I am. My father wouldn’t let them, but they eventually forced him to give me up. He was handing me over while everyone else was hurling insults at me. I couldn’t take it anymore. All I wanted was to be normal. I put them to sleep – I still don’t know how, it just happened – and then I ran away.”

“How long have you been here,” the kind-hearted cleric asked.

“Two days? There were goblins here before, but then they were all gone one day, and the day after is when I moved in. If this is your cave, you can have it. I’ll go somewhere else…” the girl said, already starting to move. “I’m a freak, so you wouldn’t want me.”

“You don’t have to do that… We can share. I have three friends with me, but I’m sure they will agree to let you stay with us, at least for a little while. We know what it’s like to not have a place to stay. Besides, I can also cast magic. You’re not alone, and there are a lot more magic users in the world than any of us might think.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am very sure. I’ll go get them right now, if you want. My friends, I mean.”

Trianta looked shocked. “Y-you’d do that for me?”

“Of course I would,” Rhosymedre reassured her. “I know how important having people who accept you is.” She looked around secretively. “Can you keep a secret?” Seeing Trianta’s eager nod, she continued. “I also didn’t have a proper home for a while. I had visions of Helm, urging me to be vigilant, for there were those who would not be so. Well, people didn’t like that too much, and they handed me over to a travelling priest of Helm one day, without really telling me why. He took pity on me, and brought me to the nearest temple, but even there, I was somewhat of an outcast, because I don’t quite hold to the extreme rigidity of Helm’s justice.”

“How did you end up here, then?”

“I left. Well, that’s not entirely true. The temple wanted to establish a presence in Phandalin, so they chose me to go, because I grew up on a farm nearby the town. I was travelling to the town – unwisely alone – when I was attacked by goblins. I was rescued by Egil, whom you will meet shortly, and together we followed the goblins here, and slew them all.”

“So you were the ones to clear them out… You must be very powerful,” Trianta spoke in awe.

“Hardly. Myself, anyways. I am barely a cleric. But Egil certainly seems to know what he is doing, as well as Beorn Hammerfist, a dwarf whom we rescued from prison in Phandalin. Nublin Rootseeker, a gnome we found, seems to be about as competent as a rogue as I am as a cleric, but he does well enough.”

“Is that all of you?”

“Yes. I don’t mind telling you that I’ll be glad to have another female with us. I don’t know how long I’d last as the only woman,” Rhosymedre chuckled. “If you choose to stay with us, of course. We might be engaging in some dangerous activities soon.”

“Like what?”

“Resisting arrest, minor banditry, and protecting people who don’t wish to be protected.”

“You left Phandalin under unpleasant circumstances, didn’t you?”

“Well… yes, we did… You see, what had happened was–” She was interrupted by Beorn entering the chamber and crying out with relief.

“I found you! You disappeared and we were starting to get worried...” He saw Trianta and suspicion draped his features. “Who is she?” He curtly asked.

“This is Trianta. From what she told me, she is a sorcerer, and is in need of a home; I promised that we would be her home, at least for a little while,” Rhosymedre responded.

“What happened to her? She looks worse than some of those regular drunks in Phandalin prison.”

“Her family handed her over to the village when they discovered that she possessed magical powers. She escaped, and found her way here.”

Beorn’s features softened upon hearing the abridged tale. “Something tells me that this meeting was not by chance. If you will vouch for her, Rhosymedre, then I will support you. Not that I can really see Egil or Nublin objecting.” He looked around, preparing to exit the way he had entered when a thought struck him. “Pardon my poor manners, Trianta. I know your name, but you do not know mine. I am Beorn Hammerfist, and I am a paladin of Tyr. We will see to it that you stay with us, if only for a little while.”


	7. Pastimes

“No, absolutely not,” Egil stated bluntly in response to Rhosymedre’s request to have Trianta stay with them.

“And why not?” She challenged him, determined to fight him on this issue.

“Because she’s a child.”

“What does that have to do with it? We owe it to her to protect her, just as we owe it to everyone else to protect them.”

“And the best way we can protect her is by _not_ keeping her with us. We all know that we’re in for a rough time, and there’s a good chance that we will all die soon. I don’t want to expose her to that.”

“Where else could she go? Most people are just as hateful of her magic as her old village was. Plus, if _we’re_ the ones to send her somewhere, they may use that to arrest us again.”

“But we will be the ones in a fight. If they find us and we have her with us, that could put us in several compromising situations. One: we would have to make sure she isn’t harmed, instead of devoting our full concentration to the fight. Two: they could capture her and hold her hostage, forcing us to stop fighting. Three: she could be killed, and then we would have her blood on our consciences. Do you want any of those?”

“With the proper training, she could join us in battle, and that should not be discounted. Beorn and I aren’t devoted spellcasters. I mean, combined we are about the equivalent of what Trianta could be, given some time and dedication.”

“Nublin, what do you think?” Egil questioned. He knew where Beorn stood, judging by how he stood next to the girl when Rhosymedre approached him with her.

After a pause to digest the points previously made, Nublin said “I think that I am with Rhosymedre. A dedicated spellcaster is definitely something that we could use. If the four of us ought to be sufficient to protect her from the brunt of any melee, and having any spellcaster supporting you should not be discounted.”

“Very well. I am out-voted, it appears. The girl will stay with us,” Egil pronounced. “I expect us to not be fawning over her all the time, however,” he said with a grin. “After all, there is work to be done!” With that, he strode over to the mouth of the cave system, his black hair and green cloak billowing slightly in the breeze blowing into the cavern.

A week later, they still remained undiscovered. Trianta had progressed splendidly in her training, due to many hours each day spent practicing with both Rhosymedre and Beorn, who was also learning the rudiments of magic. There had not been any fireballs so far, which was something they were all thankful for. That was some magic of a magnitude that nobody would have been prepared for.

Their caves were starting to become more like a home: there was some basic furniture, including more bed-like fixtures than a simple bedroll and some chairs. They erected a little blind along the path to the caves, and there was always at least one person keeping watch there. Nublin had rigged an alarm system such that when the guard in the blind pulled on a bit of vine, a bell at the cave would jingle, alerting everyone else. The bell was connected via long strands of vines tied together and run through a tiny tunnel alongside the path. The little band also developed and went over plans for what to do depending on who was currently on watch.

At supper, they would take turns telling stories or myths. Beorn exposed them all to a small bit of dwarven culture through myths, Nublin told tales of Garl Glittergold, Rhosymedre of various human gods she learned about in the temple of Helm, and Egil told the tales of his past campaigns.

“Wait, you are expecting me to believe that you aided in the defense of Mithral Hall?” Beorn questioned when Egil announced that he would be telling them of the most recent defense of Mithral Hall.

“I mentioned that I had served there when we were in the prison, yes.”

“How? They don’t let just anybody serve on their walls.”

“I am aware. They gave everyone in my company a drill sequence to perform, and then had them enter a tournament with some of their own warriors. I lost to a particularly fierce paladin in the third tier, but it was apparently a good enough showing that they allowed me to stay, along with one other, named Otto. The rest they sent away.”

“How many were in the tournament?” Rhosymedre asked.

“My ‘company’ was actually just eight of us, so there we sixteen participants, total. Eight dwarves of Mithral Hall, eight men in my company.”

“You were incredibly fortunate, then. The gods obviously had some sort of plan for you,” Beorn rejoined.

“I suppose so. Anyways, there were, as you can imagine, some resentful dwarves, but they changed their minds during the siege, I can assure you.”

“Really?” Beorn was skeptical, and with good reason.

“Yes. I was the only reserve fighter available, so the high command sent me to do a bit of a delaying action so that the engineers could throw up a barricade in the streets after there was a minor breach in the walls some ways away from the main focus of the assault.”

“And…?”

“Well, I’m still here, and it’s not because I ran away,” Egil defended. “Sure, I was almost dead by the time they scrambled together a squad of dwarves to defend the now-finished barricade, but none of the orcs made it farther than a block and a half into the city.”

Beorn was suitable impressed, as was everyone else. “So they rescued you?”

“No, I abandoned them and limped home,” Egil deadpanned. “Of course they rescued me. Otherwise I _would_ be dead. I don’t mention it often, because they told me it wasn’t all that common of a thing, but they named me Dwarf-friend.”

“Egil the Dwarf-friend,” Beorn marveled. “If this is true, it is an honor to make a proper introduction,” he said, rising and bowing. Egil did the same, and then they sat together while the newly-revealed Dwarf-friend finished his tale of the defense.


	8. The Ranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still alive, just at college...

Sigmund Stoneshoulder, a dwarf so tall he could almost pass for an incredibly short human, stumbled through the underbrush, trying to find a stream. The arrows protruding from his right arm – his good arm – certainly weren’t helping his escape. The orcs could smell him, and the blood dripping along would make tracking him a field exercise. He needed to find that stream. He knew it was around here somewhere…

The sound of the orcs crashing through the forest behind him spurred him on to greater efforts. As he ran further into the forest, a mist formed and thickened, until it appeared that the entire forest was shrouded with a stifling blanket of anonymity. Sigmund could work with this. It was, after all, what he was trained to do, if he could just find the stream.

The first orc was on him with a sudden snarl and rustle of dead leaves. Sigmund whirled, throwing up his shortswords to parry the greataxe that nearly cleft him in two. He stabbed the orc in the leg, following up the blow with a slash across the orc’s forearm. The orc howled and nearly missed its next attack. Instead, it grazed Sigmund’s cheek – another mark of this failed mission. The brave dwarf sliced the orc’s leg off, the stabbed it in the throat, finishing it off. The battle over, and Sigmund’s pulse returning to a slightly lower pace (being jumped by the orc hadn’t done good things for his nerves), the dwarf finally stumbled into the stream.

It started to rain; a light vertical drizzle that turned into a mini-shower within a matter of minutes, wiping away the trail of blood that Sigmund had left, and covering the sound he made as he splashed downstream, down to Wave Echo Cave. He had a mission to complete.

-

The gate opened as the lone dwarf stumbled through. Exchanging a few words with the guards, he was let into the town, being helped up to the town center, limping between the two militiamen, finding himself before the curved tables where the Council for the Promotion of the Public Welfare in Phandalin sat, formerly in deliberation and now in attentiveness toward the tall dwarf with the crude bandage wrapped around his right arm.

Clearing his throat, Sigmund began to speak, informing them of his mission, its successes and failures, warning them that the threat which the Councils had dismissed as “too far abroad” were, in fact, quite a bit closer than even he had thought. “They will be here within a few months at their current pace,” the ranger exhorted them, his deep voice serious, unlike his usual jesting manner. It was clear that he didn’t care much for wishful thinking, and he told the Council on no uncertain terms, that if they did not begin massive preparations, their town would be annihilated. He also said that even if they did prepare, there was a good chance that all would be lost regardless. “This is an orc horde like none other,” Sigmund repeated. “They seem to have found some source of great power, and nobody has been able to stand in their path and live to tell the tale.”

“You seem to have done so,” one of the councilmembers commented drily. At this point, a scribe came from the side of the room and began speaking quietly with the Head Councilmember.

“Well, yes, that is true,” Sigmund replied, a small, sad smile playing on his thick lips. “But I was not standing in their path so much as scrambling out of it.”

“The point is understood,” another councilmember commented. “We thank you for your report. The information will be passed on to the Council for the Defense of Phandalin, and they shall do as they see fit.”

“With that done,” the Head Councilman (a larger old human) spoke, nearly cutting off the man who had been speaking, “there is another issue that must be addressed. It has been brought to my attention that some… recent prisoners… have claimed that you would speak for their intentions.”

“Who are you talking about?” Sigmund asked, confused.

“The spokesperson was one Rhosymedre.” The Head Councilman saw the somewhat stunned look on Sigmund’s face and continued. “I see that name is known to you.”

“Yes, I know her. Where are they? You said ‘former prisoners,’ unless I heard incorrectly?”

“You heard me rightly. They were consigned to prison by the Council for the defense of Phandalin, but they escaped that same night, and our patrols have yet to find them.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Sigmund asked, starting to get an idea of the situation.

“Find them and bring them to justice!” a councilwoman on Sigmund’s right exclaimed.

“Peace, sister,” the Head Councilman admonished her. “We would like for you to locate them and talk to them. Find out if their story is true, and report back to us. It would be better if you could entice them to return for a… retrial...” The Head Councilman looked seriously at the dwarf. “On behalf of the Councils and People of Phandalin, thank you, Sigmund Stoneshoulder, for your service,” he proclaimed solemnly. “Now go get yourself patched up, my good dwarf. Any expense will be paid by the town.”

“I understand, and thank you.” Sigmund sighed. He stood to attention, then turned and exited the Hall of Council.

As he walked over to the infirmary, he reflected on the earth-shattering changes that had come about in the few weeks that he had been gone. Phandalin would be overwhelmed. He was certain of that. His thoughts were mostly turned to protecting Wave Echo Cave and the Phandelver mine. If that remained intact, then Phandalin could be rebuilt. If not, then hope was lost for the region. Neverwinter would be of little help. Indeed, there were few people there who would support sending an auxiliary force to Phandalin when they had their own city’s safety to look after. The same would hold true for the other settlements nearby. The Phandaliners would have to look to their own defence. As he sat in a chair being patched up in the infirmary, Sigmund began to develop a plan that had a hope – a hope, and nothing more – of success. Its first portion lay in finding the so-called fugitives from Phandalin Prison.


	9. The Hall of Splinters

Tar’kness offered a respectful nod of her head to the huge orc seated on a rough-hewn pinewood throne. He was an incredible specimen, this Oshark. At eight and a half feet tall, he stood a full head taller than even most other orcs. He was heavily muscled, heavily tattooed with tribal symbols, and not very heavily dressed, wearing only a fur loincloth and several articles of jewelry, notably the thick gold chain and leather straps with the teeth of slain rivals which dangled from his dense neck. As the chief of the Pineclaw tribe, which had subdued several other neighboring tribes, he had thousands of orc warriors eager for ‘civilized’ blood under his command, and thus the Red Wizard did not allow her distaste for his barbarism to show. She was sure she could kill him, but she might not live to tell the tale.

“Are the outlying regions secured?” Oshark asked, his deep growl carrying through the hall, made in the same rough style as the throne.

“Yes, Chief,” came the reply, a faint sense of amusement present in the wizard’s own voice. “There were some few who resisted, and they have all been slain, save for one, as you ordered.” The village which had attempted to resist the small raiding party which Tar’kness had led managed to field a surprising number of battle-worthy foes, including their own wizard. In the end, they had been overwhelmed by a band of orcs under an orog, which the Red Wizard had kept in reserve, trusting in the orog’s tactical intelligence to know when to join the fray. A small smile came to the wizard’s face as she recalled the look of horror on the other wizard’s face when he realized what had happened. She had let him live, but not before forcing him to watch as she burned every book in his possession.

“Very good. I will have a payment wagon ready for your master tomorrow morning,” the orc chief informed her. “You are dismissed.”

“Yes, Chief,” Tar’kness said once more, nodding again and then walking back out of the audience hall. As she exited, she ran her hand along one of the doors, muttering a quiet curse as she pulled her hand away, a splinter stuck in the soft skin between her thumb and forefinger. She – and all of the other Red Wizards with her – were ready to return home. After three months among the orcs, even the wizard who liked Thay the least was looking forward to being home.

When she had returned to her own quarters, she immediately began writing her report to Szass Tam, to be delivered with the gold payment. The report ran as follows:

_Master,_

_The savages have driven very far from the Spine of the World. I am sure they plan to attack Neverwinter eventually, though I am sure that the city will be able to repel the attack. I have also heard some rumors of attacking a town called Phandalin, though I know not where it is, nor why it might be important._

_My company and I have been putting ourselves to good use, and have been looking for a suitable place for the fulfillment of the Plan, as you have ordered. I have also begun what you ordered me to do in your last missive, and I regret to report that our Illusionist is not as… faithful to the cause as he should. He is the only one I have uncovered, but I doubt that he is working alone. I shall reveal the rest of them, and await further instruction from you with regards to that matter._

_That is all I have to report, until such time as we hit another major settlement, for we have not encountered any since the savages overran Morgur’s Mound, as they did their best to avoid Gauntlgrym._

_Until we return, I remain,_   
_Your faithful servant,_   
_Tar’kness_

The Red Wizard carefully folded and sealed the letter three times, all in a row. In the center, the symbol of the Red Wizards was imprinted in red wax. To its right was a collection of seemingly random squiggled lines in yellow wax. On the left was a variation of a symbol of Necromancy in an unusual grey wax. Tar’kness then took the letter and placed it in a wooden box, which would have been completely nondescript had it not been for a carving on the lid which bore the same symbol that was imprinted upon the grey wax. The box was then given to another one of the Red Wizards, who would be accompanying the treasure wagon as it made its way to Thay.

That night, Oshark announced that they would be heading south once again. There was a great feast, which, as was the tradition of the Pineclaw tribe, included the ritual slaughtering of captives: this time it was three elves, five humans, a dwarf, and a very unlucky halfling. Tar’kness did not call the orcs savages simply because they were orcs. She had once been a liaison to the Many-Arrows tribe, further east, and they had not stooped to such barbarism.

The sacrifices, meant to please Gruumsh (and the other orc deities), involved the piercing of one eye as a tribute to Gruumsh, the breaking of both of the victim’s legs to honor Bahgtru, followed by the removal of the head, which often ended with the orc priest eschewing any blade and tearing off the head with their bare hands. The victims are executed one by one, so that the last (a elf, whenever possible) dies the least honorably, filled with fear. After the killings are done, the entire tribe descends into a night of debauchery and, more often than not, violence.

In the three months since the Red Wizards arrived, they had witnessed the ritual performed seven times, each just as grisly as the one before. Only the Diviner in Tar’kness’ company understood why things were done the way they were, and she refused to speak on the significance of each part of the ritual. She simply threw her dragon knucklebones, paled visibly, and informed the company that business would become far more savage as the days went on.

The next day, the Pineclaw tribe began to march towards Neverwinter, killing anything and everything that stood in the tribe’s path. All was as Gruumsh had intended.


End file.
